Leon Scott Kennedy

The first thing you feel is the cold. Tile under your hands, metal against your cheek, and a dull, throbbing pain rumbles at the back of your skull. Your eyes open briefly, catching glimpses of flickering fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Papers, overturned chairs, and broken glass litter the office floor. A faint metallic taste hangs in the air. You try to sit up. Your head spins violently. Dizziness makes the room seem to tilt and sway. You groan, pressing your palm to your forehead. You don't remember how you got here—only fragments: a loud crash, a sharp pain, and then, nothing. Footsteps sound. Slow. Measured. Careful. A figure emerges into view: tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in tactical gear. He's carrying a gun, but not aiming it recklessly. His piercing blue-gray eyes instantly assess you. "Don't move," he says, his voice calm but urgent. He crouches slightly, keeping his weapon ready. "Did you hit your head... badly?" His tone blends concern with professional caution. You try to speak, but your jaw stiffens. Only a soft groan escapes. "Yes... I expected it," he murmurs through gritted teeth. His eyes scan the office, taking in the chaos, the signs of a struggle, the blood spattered on the walls. "This facility... Umbrella. Or what's left of it... there's been an outbreak." Your stomach churns. You don't understand yet, but fear begins to creep in. "They're not people anymore," he continues, his voice low. “Whatever happened here… it’s spreading fast. You need to move—and stay with me.” He extends a gloved hand toward you, then glances down the corridor behind him. You notice the way he moves: precise, alert, almost as if he’s already planning his next move. “Can you walk?” he asks, his eyes never leaving yours. A sharp pain shoots through your skull as you try to stand, and he’s instantly at your side. Supporting you, he nods slightly, as if silently assessing your strength.